It began on an ordinary day at my workshop. The air smelled of food cooking nearby, and perhaps it was that smell that drew her in. Out of nowhere, a stray dog appeared at the entrance.
Her fur was tangled into painful knots, and dirt clung to every strand. She looked exhausted, filthy, and yet—when I looked closer—I realized she wasn’t just any stray. She was a mother. Her body still bore the signs of recent birth.
She lay there, eyes pleading, as if begging me for help. There was no aggression in her, no trace of fear toward people—only hunger, and an aching hope. Still, when I greeted her gently, she startled. She backed away, uncertain, though she didn’t run far. She simply kept her eyes on me, as though waiting to see what I would do.
When I stood and walked toward her, she panicked, darting toward the door. But then I called out softly. She hesitated, looked back, and—against her instincts—took a step toward me.
Her trust was fragile, and she kept a cautious distance. When she realized I wasn’t offering food immediately, her face seemed to fall, as if disappointment was something she had grown used to. So I tossed her a chicken leg. Her reaction was instantaneous. She grabbed it, tail wagging with pure joy, and ran. She didn’t eat right away. She carried it off, sprinting until she felt safe, and only then did she stop to eat. That was my first meeting with her.
The second time she appeared, she was bolder. Perhaps because her first attempt had been successful, she seemed to trust me more. Her tail wagged non-stop as she circled around me, her body language almost shouting: I’m hungry. Please, do you understand me?
I went inside and came back with a duck leg. The moment she saw it in my hand, she leapt and spun with excitement, her joy filling the air like music. She snatched the meat, ran again, and vanished down the road. But this time, she didn’t eat it immediately. And I thought to myself: Is she carrying it back for her puppies?
The third time, curiosity overtook me. After giving her food, I decided to follow. Where did she live? Where were her babies?
She ran recklessly across the busy street, narrowly avoiding cars. My heart jumped with every near miss. Quietly, I kept my distance, not wanting her to notice me. She disappeared into a cornfield, and I realized she must be hiding nearby. But I didn’t find her home that day.
The fourth time, things were different. She wasn’t afraid of me anymore. After eating, she lay down right beside me, letting me stroke her head. That’s when I noticed something heartbreaking: a rope tied tightly around her neck, cutting into her skin. The fur around it had been rubbed away.
I grabbed a pair of scissors, my hands trembling with anger, and carefully cut it off. She shook her head, freed at last. I could only imagine how painful it had been for her. Her relief was obvious.
The fifth time, she came wagging her tail, happy, as if she already knew I would care for her. I scooped some meat from the pot into a plastic bowl. This time, she ate right there in front of me. No fear. No hiding. Afterward, she carried another piece away, and I knew exactly what it meant—she was feeding her puppies.
Once again, I followed her, more determined than ever to uncover the truth. She walked briskly, but this time, when she noticed me behind her, she didn’t stop. She quickened her pace, as if testing whether I would give up. Then she darted into the cornfield again. And finally—I found her home.
She belonged to an elderly couple. And there they were: three little puppies tumbling around her, their tiny tails wagging like fragile flags of life.
Days passed. She didn’t come to see me for three days straight. Worry gnawed at me until I decided to visit her home with food. She was chained, but the moment she saw me, she lit up, barking and wagging with excitement.
Her owners weren’t home, so I couldn’t speak to them. All I could do was place the food down and watch her devour it. The leftovers scattered around told me how little she was being fed.
The next time, I gathered my courage and spoke to her owners. I offered to buy her, to give her a better life. They refused flatly. “She is not for sale,” they said, their words final. After that, she stopped coming to me. My heart sank.
But I couldn’t give up. I prepared food and deworming medicine, determined to help at least in small ways. When I visited again, I found her locked inside a wooden shed. She wagged her tail frantically, so happy to see me.
I treated her as best as I could. Her belly was crawling with fleas. Her environment was miserable. And yet, her owners claimed they loved her. How could anyone call this love? To keep a dog chained, starving, and infested with parasites?
She wasn’t living like a pet. She was living like a stray. And all I could think was: She deserves so much better.
Finally, a breakthrough came. A friend of mine knew her owners. I asked him for a favor: negotiate with them, convince them to let her go. And it worked.
When I saw her again, she was mine. Free. Safe. No longer bound to that chain.
I brought her straight to the pet store, where she received her first real bath, her first grooming session. I named her July—because we had met in July. It felt right.
During grooming, we discovered scars on her face and leg. I took her to the vet immediately.
“The wounds on her face,” the vet explained, “are from scratching herself because of ear mites. The leg injury is likely from a fight with another dog.”
He treated her wounds, her mites, and even gave her probiotics to help her digestion. For the first time, July was receiving genuine care.
And then she came home with me.
July has a real home now. A bed. Food she doesn’t have to fight for. Love that doesn’t come with conditions.
From that timid, hungry stray at the workshop door, she has transformed into a joyful, radiant dog who runs to me every morning, tail wagging furiously. Every scar on her body tells a story of survival, and every smile on her face tells a story of hope.
She is no longer a stray. She is family. And when I see her sleeping peacefully, belly full, safe at last, I know every effort, every worry, every moment spent fighting for her was worth it.
This is my story, and July’s story. A story of love, of second chances, and of the simple truth that every life—human or animal—deserves kindness, dignity, and a place to belong.
